"Kchainchemalle."
The voice of the Iron Inquisitor echoed in his mind.
"Huh?" Astolfo blinked in confusion.
In the dim candlelit corner, he was dozing off, leaning against the carcass of a giant raven. The enormous black creature lay on its side, both wings—each longer than a man—ripped apart at the bone. It was nearly identical to the raven-beasts from the Moon Nest, its beak sharp as an arrowhead, stained with rust-like blood. The black feathers hung limp, and its two onyx eyes had long since lost their luster.
Naturally, such a magic-feeding giant raven couldn't really appear here. The corpse was just an empty shell stuffed with necromancy—probably because the owner of this place had once visited Karth City beneath the Moon Nest.
Astolfo stirred groggily, nearly slumping back against the raven's body.
He instinctively patted his thigh, then his forehead—cold metal met his fingers.
It's my light armor, Astolfo thought. Not a dress. I woke up from the dream. I didn't drown in the sea of dreams after all.
With some effort, he lifted the bloodstained visor. Through the slits in his helmet, he could see his tied-back hair tucked under the backplate. Astolfo yawned. He saw the Inquisitor holding his long spear in one hand, the other rhythmically tapping the shaft. The crisp tapping sounded like the breath of wind chimes on a rainy night.
Though he was sleeping, Astolfo hadn't taken off his armor.
He wasn't so careless as to nap in an unknown place without protection.
"What's this spear called?" The Inquisitor drove the tip into the floor.
Standing in the corridor, the Inquisitor resembled a towering slab of stone, casting his shadow over anyone nearby—just as always.
"I named it Argalia, Lord Tarkhsal," Astolfo said, sitting up with difficulty. His face was unusually serious now. "I picked it up by chance, but someone once said this was the lance of Argalia. When I tried to return it, I found that knight had died in battle two years ago. His sister, Angelica, vanished without a trace. So I named the spear Argalia in his memory and have used it ever since."
"Two years ago... the conflict between the Principality of Varmar in Northern Lesle and the gray elf tribes?"
"Yes."
"Ha! Savage fur-clad beasts," Tarkhsal scoffed. "As for your little story about finding and borrowing... never mind. I'm not here to question your past. Are you familiar with the ancient species Kchainchemalle?"
Astolfo scratched his head—forgetting he was still in a helmet. "The lizard things with an ant-like social structure? I read about them in some black elf notes, translated by Scholar Anis at the Karvin Library."
"Yes, that's their formal name. But archaeologists usually call them 'ant beasts,'" Tarkhsal replied. "Some call them 'intelligent lizards.' Very casual names, wouldn't you say? In any case, in all known history, they were the first intelligent species to control the world. Their mastery over gravitational magic was astonishing. Still, they were wiped out completely in their war with the elves. Then again, humans didn't even exist back then, so their extinction has nothing to do with us."
"Hmm... so you brought them up because—" Astolfo tried to scratch his head again, and hit helmet again.
"Your spear makes those it touches lose balance easily. It's likely one of their creations."
A wave of disappointment surged up in him. "What? So it wasn't some sealed power awakening in me?"
"There's no sealed power in you. I can confirm that fully."
"No, no, no! You're supposed to say, 'Even I cannot see through the mysterious seal within you—it must be a world-altering power,' and then recite a few cryptic prophecies like a seer. And then tell me—"
Tarkhsal ignored him. He poured his energy into the spear, lifted it, and tapped Astolfo's shoulder with the tip.
A strange magic flowed into Astolfo's body.
"Wha—?!"
From Astolfo's perspective, within a single breath, the world flipped upside down. He found himself hanging head-first toward the floor—though to him, it looked like the ceiling. He yelped in surprise, realizing his feet were no longer touching the ground—gravity below him disappeared, and a new force above tugged him upward.
He began to fall—except the direction of "down" was now the ceiling.
Then Tarkhsal casually grabbed his ankle and held him up midair.
"Astolfo, youngest child of Charles V, wanderer of three continents, wielder of Argalia."
"Is this my grand destiny being announced? I'm not ready to carry the burden of saving the world yet—wait, hold on, how do you know I'm Charles V's son?"
"Hmm? Savior?" Tarkhsal said. "You read too many knight novels, young man."
His metal-crossed helmet now dangled upside down in Astolfo's view. "There's no such profession as savior in Lesle. I don't dabble in prophecy. I just try to pick titles that sound less ridiculous. As for Charles V's bloodline—that's semi-public info among the Church. Ever since Charles VI took the throne, it's not much of a secret anymore. No need to explain it."
Tarkhsal regarded him through some unknown sense. His voice, projected directly into Astolfo's mind, was as detached as ever—never a rise or fall in tone.
"Young knight, impulsiveness is your flaw—it stems from your passion, not your reason. Still, I understand. Perhaps you cannot change it. Listen closely. We Inquisitors live by ancient codes. You helped me a bit in the dungeon, so I owe you a favor. I'll try to bind this spear to your soul, so you can bring it into the dream realm. Otherwise, you'd die alone there. Also, I'll show you how to use it properly—no more blindly stabbing enemy legs. I don't want my colleagues thinking I'm a fool who can't mentor."
Astolfo blinked, curious. "You know Argalia well?"
"I don't know whoever that is. But the spear connects to the ant beasts' ancient labyrinths. Their relics are part of the Church's studies."
"But... isn't this place supposed to block labyrinth energy?"
"It's hard, not impossible. Nothing is absolute." Tarkhsal shook his head. "What ordinary humans can't do doesn't mean the undying can't."
He tapped Astolfo's armor again.
The pull of gravity shifted—this time tilted forty-five degrees. The world flipped sideways, and Astolfo landed on the left wall. Thankfully, he'd already been close to it. In his view, Tarkhsal now stood horizontally on the wall—his feet seemingly fixed to it.
"Cleric Brunord is dead, Lord Tarkhsal." A knight approached and reported flatly.
Astolfo turned his head. Tarkhsal fell silent for a moment. The knight's words struck like cold water.
"Ha. So someone still died in the dream." Astolfo heard him mutter internally. Then Tarkhsal's voice rose in the air, like a bell tolling in the corridor: "Cause of death?"
"Severe dehydration. Entire body mummified. Not a trace of blood left."
Tarkhsal released Astolfo from the gravity spell and gestured for the knight to lead the way. The two of them followed down the corridor.
"Oh, Lord Tarkhsal," Astolfo suddenly spoke up, "I've found Jeanne's whereabouts."